The Crayon and the Catfish

I had so many things to tell you,
let's pretend the purple crayonmarks
on the wall were made by our son

and not some desperate cry
for being left alone, again,
in our large, childless house...

once, when I was seven
I caught a catfish in a storm,

it gulped the rain so hungrily,
I cut the silver line and released it.

When I was eight, I found it floating
on the top of the lake, a rusted hook
still embedded in its protruding lip-

the angst of its foiled life...

a large, quiet house,
an empty womb.


"It is better to let madness slither away
than to engage its furious fangs"


Passage to Dawn

How will you teach me lover?
of shuddering stars, vigilant moons,
concealed shadows where

black flowers flame silver wicks
on the purple dusk of temple-

answer my prayers, what is kiss...

clear sky, seeds of sunlight planted
in the heart of fog, an entire night

like a passage to dawn
on an oarless boat, how

will you move me-

wings of light, mysterious word
whispered sighs of cloud,
rain and morning, of bird

on the tremulous back of winds...

how will you take me lover?

suddenly as death climbs through
an open window, slowly as the vine
of sleep crawls up its ladder, completely

as the silent moment of losing soul.


Draft- Dream of a Small Room

What speaks of silence- warm breath
without a body, the twine of bundled lips
unwound in the darkest corner of thought,

(each strand unraveled kiss)

the narrow tunnel of a tiny shell
the fingers never breach, the eye

has only dreamed of that small room

where treasures are presumed to dwell...


The Tail of River

I would like to be the one
to inform you- we were never
meant to last beyond

a river has a mouth
and a tail, a road
has a gate and a last step

into the mystery of grasses...

even, the faith
of stars vanish

at the end of night.

Draft: In Memory of Our City

We never thought this would happen
to us, buried apart and city remains
as a great stone of tomb with our names
etched in memory on broken streets,
our faces reflected against the shiny skin
of high-rises,


Un intended Journey

There is a certain, sad obstinance
to the grainy leather of soul, which
when rubbed habitually worn-shine
that even age cannot mimic...

why do you worry so? In the end
there is naught but the beginning

rewound, re-played, theorized,
thinning, over-used and badgered

(haircloth of thought stretched tightly
around the fragile body parts of longing)

I have been there... too many times
in many forms, but always there

like the cycles of worm, cocoon,

glorious agitated flight-

straight into the grisly teeth of death...

Soon, you will remember the quiet days,
count them as stamens in mouth of flowers,
every yellow pollen appreciated for its

unintended, ill-conceived journey.


Draft for... Snake and Vine

An empty bottle of cheap champagne,
half-smoked cigarette snuffed out by rain,
seven dollars and a girly magazine
stuffed in the pocket of his faded jeans...

leaning on the corner of sixth avenue
shooting sugar with the chosen few,
glassy eyed and pale green cheeks,
hasn't seen the sun in six long weeks...

red tatoo of a snake and vine,

Silver Wolf

Dangles like a necklace, the setting sun
beaded ornament of glowing nights,
of smoke rising from the distant hills,
of darkness sunken into saffron eyes of owl
echo light as precious stones.

A silver wolf paces the black forest,
an old, reluctant woman asks for directions
in a strange city, instinctively turns east-
the gate of her house closed each evening
with sudden clasp of a rusted latch.

Small creatures wait for day in fear, men
lie down in feathered beds and weep,

........... work in progress